


Edge of Desire

by wildwordwomyn



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Companions, M/M, Male Slash, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 05:59:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1334629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildwordwomyn/pseuds/wildwordwomyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Reese, former CIA agent, former, well, occasionally still a killer, never expected to need this. Especially not anymore. Especially not from Harold Finch...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Edge of Desire

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Pretty much porn with little (I mean very little) plot. This is basically a scene that starts in the middle instead of the beginning and I'm not sure it's really at an end... 
> 
> 2\. By the way, fragmented sentences abound. No, seriously, all up in this thing. Don't say I didn't warn you.
> 
> 3\. This was not named for John Mayer's song but it is a great title and interesting story idea. And as usual this is unbeta'd, not real, I don't own the show or the characters, you know the rest.

Riding along the edge of his desire is exactly like the moment before someone pulls the trigger and somehow, inexplicably, John survives. It's all those good days, those bad days, those in-between days when the pieces break apart only to be put back together again. The desire feels good in a way nothing has since Jess, since before Jess, since, well, never. It's really never been this good before if John is to be honest with himself.

Because Harold is staring down at him while he's staring up at Harold, and the older man has his hands in his hair, caressing. His fingers keep tracing lazy geometric patterns John can't track, is too busy lapping up the prize before him to track. The first lick was enough to make him salivate, to want, but now? Now that he's licked over and over and over again and Harold is practically whining with pleasure, all John can think about is the way Harold tastes (bitter, God, real), the way he's trembling (completely out of control, and what a head rush that is), the way he's growing, throbbing, leaking liquid fire into John's mouth. John needs it, needs more, so he sucks harder, then harder still when Harold suddenly groans.

John stops, just stops, pulls away to push Harold back onto the couch, strips himself in the blink of an eye and climbs into his lap. “Please,” he murmurs. “Please please pleasepleasepleaseplease,” until it becomes one word, a chant, a prayer. It shouldn't be, isn't, can't, yet Harold smiles so tenderly John doesn't even attempt to wipe away the tear rolling down his cheek as he sinks down, down, down. Bottomed out and wide open and hungry enough not to feel any pain, and he says, “Please,” again, low, desperate, his throat full of all the things he's never said to another living soul, his tongue swollen and restless. He has to taste again, has to know, so he bends over to coax Harold's tongue into his own mouth, dueling with it sensually. Drunk on the feel of this man who, when the nightmares rush in, is always a phone call away.

“Oh, John, it's alright. It's alright,” Harold whispers between kisses, and reaches for him with a warm hand. Not even half a stroke later John is coming so hard he sees stars reflected in Harold's eyes, thinks he's closed his own but he hasn't, has kept them open the whole time, is watching Harold watch him with this entirely new look on his face that John hasn't seen before, and for once begins to believe he's worthy. Everything John's giving him he's giving back, all the hurt, death, guilt, loneliness. The endless hope. Returning it in a broken but beautiful package, a gift, and when Harold says softly, “I love you, John,” and comes, filling John full, John curls around him, loses himself, responding the only way he knows anymore.

“...I love you, too, Harold. I love you, too...,” and cries.

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I really really REALLY like the idea (or maybe the image) of John on his knees?


End file.
